


Metonymy

by Tseecka



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Fluff, Intense Snuggling, M/M, Necks, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has a complaint; Watson is only too happy to try and fix it for him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metonymy

It was the third sigh in the last five minutes, and I was getting tired of trying to ignore Holmes' pitiable paraverbal pleas. His head followed the motion of a non-existent pendulum clock, tilting to the left and right and uttering a pointed sigh every 1.67 minutes.   
  
It worried me that Holmes' manner of thinking had so effectively worn off on me that the uneven division of integers came to mind like second nature.  
  
"Confound it, Holmes!" I finally ejaculated, exasperated beyond belief when a fourth sigh came from the plush upholstery as the second hand ticked precisely into place. "What on earth is the matter with you?" Holmes swung his head over to face me, where I sat in relative comfort in the less forgiving of our two armchairs, and gave me the longest look I have ever seen cross his countenance. Apparently, as his habits have been rubbing off onto my own, Gladstone's have been affecting his.   
  
"I have," he pronounced, injecting his words with incredible suffering, "the most horrid crick in my neck. I do believe it is a veritable knot, in fact, and it is paining me so immensely..." His words drifted off, his eyes locked onto my own, and I could only hold his gaze with a stern look upon my face for a matter of moments. I felt my eyes crinkle into a smile without my volition, at roughly the same moment that his eyes softened, and with a rather over-dramatic sigh, I set my book on the table and stood.   
  
Holmes' eyes followed me, tracked me like the hunter he is, as I crossed the room and stood at soldier's attention, born of habit, before his chair. "...What?" he asked me, as I let my eyes wander languidly along his form before lifting an eyebrow in amusement.   
  
"If you'd sit up a smidge, Holmes, I'll give you a massage." He pursed his lips in pretend surprise--as though he hadn't been scheming for one of my massages, whose virtues he continually extolled in the privacy of our rooms--and uncrossed his legs, unfolding himself until he was as close to upright in his seat as a relaxing Holmes ever was. Ignoring the slight twinge of protest from my bad leg, I lowered myself into the seat, straddling his lap with a knee to either side and my hands resting against the back of the chair. His eyes searched mine, narrowed somewhat as he performed another of his lightning-quick calculations of the situation.   
  
"Seems an odd way to give a massage," he muttered, but I could detect the trace of humour in his eyes, the very faintest lift of the corners of his lips, in that subtle way that denoted true mirth, happiness, rather than his customary smirk.   
  
"I can reach your neck perfectly fine from here, old boy," I murmured back. Allowing my elbows to rest on his shoulders, I dipped my head for a kiss that Holmes was only to eager to return. Our lips held their contact for a moment, giving me the time to press my fingers into the base of his neck, and at the first twist of their tips into his flesh--I would give him this, there certainly was a monstrosity of a knot to be found there--he let out a long, low moan and pulled back.   
  
The sound that came from him as I began my massage was obscene, and it took ridiculous amounts of self-control on my part to continue my ministrations. I felt Holmes' hands come round to settle on my hips, and his eyes fluttered closed as I began to work at the hardened lump of taut muscle, smoothing out the kinks and lumps. "'What did you do to yourself?" I asked him in a low voice, as I felt the muscle begin to loosen under my fingers. Holmes cracked one eye open, and managed to almost stifle his surprise at the nearness of my face to his as he answered.  
  
"Someone had me playing violin for him for hours on end yesterday."  
  
"You need to practice," I admonished, allowing a moment for my fingers to brush through the ragged curls at the base of his skull. Holmes shivered.   
  
"Be that as it may..." he began, but a renewed pressure on his shoulder interrupted whatever he'd been about to say with another long, low moan.   
  
I pressed another kiss against his mouth, and resettled myself in his lap, enjoying the fit of his quads between my thighs and the reassuring tone of those muscles against my seat. His fingers stroked delicately over my hip bones. He might whinge and complain whenever I pleaded with him to stop his incessant, discordant plucking of strings and play something for me that held true melody, but the fact remained that the man was built for music. As the last of the knotted cords of muscle resolved themselves into pliancy, I allowed my fingers to drift, leaning my head to the side to watch as my fingertips ran along the bared skin exposed by his loosened dressing gown. I stroked the side of his neck, watching in fascination that had nothing to do with medicine as the skin and muscle moved and pulled with his sudden swallow. His skin was taut, dry; smooth and free of the blemishes that marked him elsewhere.   
  
"John..."  
  
My name was a strangled plea from his lips, and I smiled to myself as I lowered my head to allow a taste of that skin. My tongue pressed against his pulse point; I could feel his heart racing, the blood pumping furiously through his artery, as his fingers tightened on my hips and he gave the smallest of movements, for an instant pressing our lower halves more closely together. With as much care as my fingers had shown his strained muscle, I ministered to the sensitive skin that ran all long the side of his neck; feather light kisses, brief, darting licks, and the slow and gentle drag of my fingertips along his moistened flesh, smiling against his skin with every gasp that I managed to elicit from his crumblingly stoic exterior.   
  
Holmes' neck, like his hands, held a certain fascination for me. The delicacy of unmarred skin that hid an astonishing array of powerful muscle; it was a metonymy for him in his own body. His entire existence reduced to the segment of flesh between his shoulders and his head. An unexpected challenge, a terror of strength and wit hidden behind a falsely nonchalant and discontinuous manner; that was my Holmes.   
  
As I laved the soft flesh just behind his ear with my tongue, my arms draped securely over his shoulders and our chests pressed tightly together, Holmes' strained attempts to capture my attention finally convinced me to turn away. I laid my forehead on his shoulder, suddenly aware of the quickness of my heartbeat and shortness of breath that had overtaken me without my knowing. I smiled softly to myself, hidden against the fabric of his dressing gown. "Yes, Holmes?" I asked quietly, my fingers toying with his hair, stroking along the downy-soft curls at his nape.  
  
"You need--" he gasped as I shifted, redistributing my weight in a way that was anything but accidental-- "my dear John, you need to get off of my lap at once!"  
  
I pulled away, my lids heavy, eyes searching his face.   
  
"And why is that--Sherlock?" I smiled to myself as the purposely husky tone I always employed when using his first name had its usual effect. He groaned, and even went so far as to release one of my hipbones in order to adjust his breeches just slightly.   
  
"Dammit, John, if you are not in my bed in the next five minutes..." I raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to finish his threat.   
  
"Than what?"  
  
In response, the seemingly helpless Holmes--the Sherlock that moments before had been putty at my touch--lifted me bodily off of his lap and deposited me in a rather unceremonious manner on the floor. He stood before me, every inch of his visible skin beaded with just the smallest amount of sweat, muscles working in his jaw and a merry twinkle in his eye that left me with not the smallest twinge of fear.   
  
"Then I shall never play the violin for you again." He smiled, his entire face lighting with his earnest mirth, and offered me a hand. As I stood, I used it to pull him tightly against me, pressing our bodies flush and close. He looked up at me, an emotion we both knew he would never put words to in his eyes and, I knew, reflected in mine. I smoothed my fingers down his neck and along his jaw, running my thumb over his lips. Wordlessly, we walked ourselves to the darkened seclusion of his bedroom, and promptly shut the door against the outside world. 


End file.
